


sang the sun in flight

by coffeeandchemicals



Series: 'cause without you there I don't think I could close my eyes [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Study, Childhood Trauma, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Neil Hargrove's A+ Parenting, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Post-Season/Series 03, Season/Series 03, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:40:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24933163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandchemicals/pseuds/coffeeandchemicals
Summary: Billy was dying. And it fucking hurt.He hadn’t planned on dying – although, he supposed, most people really don’t – and he’d definitely not planned on being possessed. And, given what he’d done, Billy thought that maybe he deserved to die – but he was afraid.So afraid.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Eleven | Jane Hopper & Billy Hargrove
Series: 'cause without you there I don't think I could close my eyes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1836886
Comments: 63
Kudos: 249





	1. grave men, near death

**Author's Note:**

> Hi folks! 
> 
> First multi-chapter fanfic - although it's not going to be super long. I've got it all pretty much planned out - so don't worry about it not getting done! (If you were worrying, which it's totally okay if you weren't - so many other things to worry about.)
> 
> I think the tags pretty much cover all the trigger warnings. Please let me know if I missed something. 
> 
> I hope everyone is doing okay!

Billy was dying. And it fucking hurt.

He hadn’t planned on dying – although, he supposed, most people really don’t – and he’d definitely not planned on being possessed. But who could have seen that coming? Like, dying is inevitable, a fact of life – dying gives life meaning or some bullshit like that – but no one ever considers what they’d do if they became possessed by a fucking monster hellbent on destroying the world and, also, killing a little girl, because, apparently, monsters were petty (or, at least, this one was – it’s not like Billy had a whole pool of monsters to poll on their feelings regarding trivial revenge). And, after being possessed, Billy supposed he should have thought his death would soon follow – because no one who drinks pool chemicals is _actually_ going to live a long and healthy life full of fucking sunshine and puppies. But Billy couldn’t have predicted – even if he had been lucid and not fighting his possessed self in his head – that he’d end up being killed by a _monster made of people_. Although, he had given the monster the majority of those people and, well, karma was a fucking bitch. And, given what he’d done, Billy thought that maybe he deserved to die – but he was afraid. 

So afraid.

But, also, in so much fucking pain. Seriously, wasn’t his brain supposed to block that pain out – like cue his life flashing before his eyes and a white light and then he’d drift off? Movies had lied to him, dying was not quick and it was definitely not peaceful. But, Billy thought, he supposed he was the villain in this piece and villains didn’t tend to get quick or easy deaths – gotta prolong that suffering to really drive the point home.

Don’t worry – Billy was well aware he was a villain. An asshole. A bastard. A fucking queer. A psycho. – he didn’t deserve to live. He didn’t deserve a redemption arc. 

Billy groaned. It was getting harder for him to breathe and, well, his lungs had been punctured, so this was no surprise. It would be so nice if he could just black out. But, no, he got to stay awake and hear the cacophony of fireworks, screaming, metal groaning – what a sweet serenade for his last moments – should fucking record it and play it at his funeral.

Would he get a funeral? Billy didn’t think anyone would mourn him. Neil hated him. Max hated him. Susan hated him. His mom was dead – at least she’d loved him, not that it would do him much good now. He’d killed the lifeguards at the pool. He’d broken off contact with Tommy and that crowd because they were fucking dicks. But that didn’t leave anyone to organize a funeral for him, let alone go to it and mourn him. What would happen to his body? Would it be left here to rot with the corpse of that monster? Billy hoped not – he didn’t want to be put on the same level as that thing – he hadn’t been as bad as that monster, right? Or maybe he’d been worse because he’d started out as human and that monster, Billy assumed, had always been a monster – some Lovecraftian horror that saw people as ants and enjoyed setting them on fire with a magnifying glass.

Billy wished he’d been nicer – although, he supposed, most people wished that when they had no time to change – live a life, however long (or short as the case may be), die with regrets. Billy was the poster boy for this. He had so many regrets. _So many_.

Maybe that girl would mourn him. She touched his face and it had been so gentle and forgiving that it almost hurt. Too bad it didn’t absolve Billy of all of his sins – because he was the villain and he was going to die a villain – he wasn’t ever going to get the chance to transform into some morally ambiguous anti-hero with snappy comebacks, witty banter, and, maybe, a love-triangle. No, his headstone would read _Here Lies William Dylan Hargrove – Villain, Asshole, All-Around Dick_. And he wouldn’t even get to be buried next to his mom because Neil gave all of two shits about him and even less of a shit about Billy’s mom once he’d married Susan.

Fuck. This dying shit was taking forever. But, Billy thought, he was probably going to end up in some sort of hell, if it existed, so maybe being in excruciating pain right now was better than what was about to come. Would it be worse if nothing came? If he just blinked out of existence? If everything that made Billy “Billy” just ceased to be? He supposed the world would be better off. 

What a time for him to get philosophical, it’s not like it did him much good now. 

Because he was dying, and it hurt, and he was afraid.


	2. with your fierce tears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the tags cover everything - there is a reference to possible suicide - so if this is a trigger, please don't read!

Billy was dying. This was a fact. He knew it at as well as he knew his own name. 

And now his life was flashing before his eyes. Finally. Maybe then the pain would ease up, because, fuck, his chest was screaming in agony.

He is tucked under his mom’s arm and they are leaning against his headboard, her head resting on the top of his – it is late, and Billy had had a nightmare. His mom had come in and shushed his crying by singing, “Sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are gray, you’ll never know dear, how much I love you…” in her low, sweet voice. Then she kissed the top of his head and made to leave but Billy clung onto her – he is six, he shouldn’t be reaching out to his mom like a little kid. But he doesn’t want to be left alone in the dark – what if there were monsters under his bed? – it was scary.

“Okay,” says his mom, voice filled with laughter, “I’ll stay a little bit longer. Just a bit though, we don’t want to wake your dad.” 

Billy shudders; he _definitely_ doesn’t want that – his dad is angry sometimes and this made Billy afraid of him because he is so loud. Billy reaches over to his bedside table and passes her a book – _Collected Fairy Tales of Charles Perrault_ – while saying, “Will you finish the story, Mommy, please?”

“Yes, sunshine,” she says and flips the book open to an illustrated page showing Cinderella and her prince at their wedding. Billy’s mom absently runs her finger over Cinderella’s intricate lace gown. “Did I ever tell you that this was my book and my dad, your grandpa, would read these stories to me?” 

Billy shakes his head. 

“My favourite,” she continues, “was Cinderella – I always wanted to be swept off my feet by a handsome prince. And then I met your dad and I thought my dreams had come true. He was such a charming and handsome man.”

Billy pictures his mom in Cinderella’s dress and his dad in the prince’s suit and grins. Pretty. 

“And then,” his mom says, squeezing Billy close to her, “we had you – William Dylan Hargrove – and everything was perfect.” Then she kisses the top of his head again and pulls him onto her lap like she used to do when he was younger.

“William Dylan Hargrove,” his mom repeats, softly, lost in a memory. “I knew, you know, when I married your dad that I was already pregnant – I just had this feeling – and then you came long eight months later – a little ray of sunshine. You had these perfect blonde curls and such chubby cheeks.” She pinches one of Billy’s cheeks affectionately and chucks him under the chin. 

“I called you William for William Shakespeare.” She bends over to kiss his forehead, rocking him. “But don’t tell your dad that – he thinks you were named after his brother.” 

(Billy’s uncle William had died during the Korean War and his name was spoken with such reverence that Billy feared he would spend the rest of his life trying and failing to live up to his uncle’s military merits. It was hard living up to the memory of a dead person. At six, Billy already knew this and tried to leave the room when Neil went off on his drunken ramblings about how his brother was such a hero and how, if only he’d been old enough to enlist, he would have been there to save him.)

“Who is William Shakespeare,” asks Billy, squirming, trying to get comfortable as sleep starts to take him.

“A great storyteller,” replies his mom, “he wrote such beautiful poems – I’ll read you some when you’re older.”

Billy feels his eyes growing heavy and his mom’s voice drifts in and out as if on a breeze. The last thing he hears her say is, “Like William Shakespeare, you’re going to do such great things.”

Ha. If his mother could see him now. See the great things he’d done. God. She’d be so disappointed. A curl of shame pierced through the agony at that thought. Well, nothing he could do about it now – too little too late, as it were. 

He is sitting at his mother’s feet, looking up into her blue eyes. They have the same eyes and same blonde hair – his in loose in curls falling into his eyes, hers pulled back in a long braid with wisps framing her face. His mother reaches out and strokes his hair off his forehead like she used to do when he was very small. He is ten and craves these kind touches – they come so infrequently – his mother barely touches him or looks at him anymore and Billy doesn’t know what he’d done. 

(His father’s touches were sharp vicious jabs and pinches that bordered on cruel. Billy’s friends talked about their dads playing catch with them or teaching them how to change the oil in the family car and Billy couldn’t remember the last time his father had spent any time with him – unless he was yelling at him. Billy felt sick jealousy creep into his stomach when he heard his friends talking. Then he wondered what was wrong with him that his dad didn’t want spend time with him.)

“Dylan,” his mother says, in her low, tired voice, “for my father.” Then she adds, after a long pause and a deep, exhausted sigh, “He would have liked you. He was such a kind man. And a gentle one too – you’re just like him.” 

Billy waits, hoping his mother would continue, hoping to hold her attention for just a little longer. 

“Dylan for my dad,” she says, “and Dylan for Dylan Thomas – but don’t tell your father that.” Then she turns and looks at Billy, her eyes blank and flat – Billy could see the faint bruises in the shape of a hand around her throat from a week ago when Neil had been drinking and she’d burned the pot roast –and says, “Both died too soon, too young. Don’t follow in their footsteps.” She continues, softly, “I couldn’t survive that.” 

Billy doesn’t know how to respond to this – death isn’t something he thought about – at ten, he is going to live forever. 

His mother is staring off into space, lost in thought, lips moving. Billy has to lean in to hear her, she is mumbling, “Rage, rage against the dying of the light,” over and over, while rubbing the back of her hand in a self-soothing gesture. 

Not long after, she went to bed and doesn’t get up for two days. Billy doesn’t ask about his name anymore. 

Rage indeed, hey, mom? Maybe we’ll see each other soon and can rage together?

He is standing at the foot of his mother’s grave, it is covered with fresh dirt, mounded carelessly, haphazardly from the funeral the day before. It’d been a small affair – Billy, thirteen, stood next to Neil in a suit that was too small for him – pant legs too short, sleeves too tight. Billy’s grandparents – his mother’s parents – had died before Billy was born and she didn’t have any siblings that lived nearby – so it was just Billy, Neil, and some of their neighbours. Billy wondered where his mom’s friends were, if she’d had any – Billy thought he could remember some from when he was younger – a group of smiling women – but they’d slowly trickled away and took the easy laughter with them. No surprise there, Neil forced everyone who threatened his order and control out (but Billy only recognized this later on). 

Billy couldn’t say that he is surprised his mother is dead, he is more surprised that it took this long. She’d been disappearing for years, curling in on herself, drying up, fading away. Billy thinks she’d been dead for a long time, but it had taken her body years to catch up. The coroner had ruled his mother’s death as an accidental drowning, but Billy is pretty sure she’d killed herself or her body just gave out and she didn’t care enough to keep fighting.

(Or was in too much pain to keep living – Billy gets that.)

So, here Billy stood, at the foot of his mother’s grave – she’d been buried next to her parents – with _Dylan Thomas’s Collected Poems, 1934–1952_ clutched in one sweaty, shaking hand – he’d found it earlier that day when he’d been packing up his mother’s stuff – furious tears rolling down his cheeks. He cracks the book open and slowly reads “Do not go gentle into that good night,” mouth stuttering and fumbling over the words that wouldn’t come out when that lump in his throat got too big – blocking the words, sounds, air – and leaves him hitching, gasping, sobbing.

He is thirteen, alone, and thinks about death everyday. He isn’t going to live forever. He is going to end up just like his mom – rotting in a hole in the ground, in the dark and silence.

Billy didn’t think anyone would read poetry at his funeral – if he got one – no one even knew that he liked poetry. He started whispering to himself and his voice soon faded out when he couldn’t get enough air to form the words. Then he just mouthed them and, soon, he was too tired to do that and just recited them in his head – “Do not go gentle into that good night, old age should burn and rave at the close of day; rage, rage against the dying of the light.” He couldn’t remember the start of the next stanza – the poem was slipping away. 

Maybe this dying shit was actually happening? Fuck.

He wished he could be six again and have his mom pull him into her lap and sing, while stroking his head, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…” Because he was dying, and it hurt, and he was afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all liked this one! Any comments or kudos are greatly appreciated!
> 
> Stay safe.


	3. their frail deeds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for Neil going on a homophobic rant. So if this is going to trigger you, please don't read!
> 
> Guys, tenses are fucking hard. I went back to the previous chapter and changed a bunch around - the content is the same but the tenses have changed. English is such a weird language. Thank you to [red_plaid_on_red_plaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_plaid_on_red_plaid) for trying to fix all my mistakes - anything that was missed is my own fault!

Billy was dying. This was a fact. He knew it like he knew he loved Steve Harrington.

He was dying and he hadn’t even kissed a guy – all of his loves had been unrequited. He’d been hoping – when he was alone, late at night when he could actually convince himself that he was something other than a villain – that he could escape this place, go back to Cali, and maybe he could project a new image – be someone else, someone who deserved to be loved by someone like Steve Harrington. 

But, no. Because karma, right? He was going to die, alone, in agony, and be buried (maybe), alone, in the dark. He was never going to kiss Steve, he was never going to touch him, he was never going to know what it felt like to be held by him. But, Billy supposed, he could have lived with that (or rather died with that as it were), except that Steve thought he was a monster and would go on thinking Billy was a monster until he didn’t think of Billy at all. Steve would live a long and normal life with the perfect wife, two and half kids, and a white picket fence. And, maybe once in awhile, Steve would spare a thought for Billy when he thought of how fucked up 1985 had been for him. But Billy would not live a long and normal life – even if he hadn’t been dying. He wished he could live in these moments between his remaining breaths and think of Steve. He’d be thinking of Steve for the rest of his life. 

And. He’s fourteen again. (Oh great, who doesn’t want to relive being a gawky teenager with a crush? Like, thanks brain, for using any remaining time wisely.)

“Billy Hargrove,” calls Coach Reynolds. When Billy doesn’t respond, the coach says his name again, voice tinged with impatience, and then again for a third time. 

Billy is standing in the gym, with his scuffed black Converse, knobbly knees covered in scratches and bruises from falling off his skateboard earlier that day, and tee-shirt ripped at the collar, feeling awkward in his own skin. He’d shot up over the summer and didn’t know how to wear this new body. He didn’t know how to move in it; he felt stretched too tight and too loose-limbed at the same time – his movements both fluid and jerky, lacked any form of control or coordination. 

Billy is staring at Danny Chambers, as he completes a flawless three-pointer, feeling awkward in his own head. He isn’t a child anymore, not quite an adult, but some floundering, graceless being in between, constantly held on the edge, teetering between innocence and cynicism. 

“Hargrove,” snaps the coach for a fourth time, “if you don’t get your ass on that line in the next five seconds, I’m gonna give your spot to Michaels.” Billy jerks out of his fixated stare and scrambles over to the line, blush creeping up his neck and appearing high on his cheek bones. Billy tries to pass off his staring as admiration – he wants to be just as good as Danny – but, as he watches Danny joke around with the other seniors, easy smile spreading across his face, eyes half-lidded, Billy decides he’d rather just have Danny look at him like that. 

(Billy practiced in the mirror until he could perfectly reproduce Danny’s half-lidded eyes – but Billy’s grin always looked more predatory than easy and relaxed. When Billy saw the reactions his predatory smirk got, he decided he liked his version better.)

Billy is leaning against the doorframe, staring at Neil as he watches some football game on their small tv, drinking beer. Neil is furiously shouting at the screen, words stumbling over each other, running together, fists shaking – Billy wonders if Neil has money riding on this game. 

“Fucking faggot. Catch the ball. What the fuck is wrong with you? Throw, you fairy. I could do better than that. What the fuck. Come on. Come on.” 

Neil goes on, his slurs and wrath creating ice in Billy’s stomach, making bile rise in his throat. Billy knows then, well, really, he’d known all along, that Neil would never accept Billy the way he is – a fucking faggot. Billy thinks of Danny – his brown hair glinting red under the gym lights, calf muscles tightening as he’d sprang to take the shot – and Billy feels a sick ball of shame roiling in his gut, accompanied by a slight tingle of lust (a feeling that Billy is not that familiar with at fourteen, but would grow familiar with as he got older – lust and want and arousal all coloured by that tinge of fear, of wrongness, for desiring people – boys – _men_ – who he is not supposed to desire). Billy forces those feelings down, tries to slow his breathing, sets his shoulders, and swaggers into the room. 

Gotta talk big, put up a front, make sure people don’t look too close, right, Neil?

Billy hates Neil. Hates him. _Hates him_. But he wants his approval so badly. (That’s why he tried out for basketball.) When Billy told Neil that he’d gotten a spot on the team, Neil had just curled his lip in a sneer and said, “So,” and took a pull from his beer. It stung. It hit Billy right in the center of his chest. Billy knew – _he knew_ – that Neil was going to react that way. But. But he’d hoped in some small, secret part of his heart that maybe, just maybe, Neil would say, “Good job,” and call him son and they’d be some sort of a family again. 

Ha. If Neil could see him now. See the villain Billy had become. Proud yet, Dad? Love me yet?

The only way Billy had survived freshman year and the stifling hate that Neil breathed out in his presence, suffocating him, was Danny. Danny had ended up taking Billy under his wing – teaching him his trick shots, coaching him on weightlifting, running drills with him so he would be faster, more agile on the court – “I wanna make sure I leave the team in good hands, amigo. I think those hands are yours,” he’d said, near the end of February, when Billy had finally asked him why he was doing all of this. Then Danny added, “I hope you prove me right, kid.” And Billy knew he’d do anything to not let Danny down. 

Danny, see these _good_ hands, amigo? See how wrong you were?

(Billy had ended up falling hopelessly in love with Danny – or at least Billy thought it was love, he’d never been in love before, so he didn’t have anything to compare it to. He loved Danny’s forearms that were thick with ropey muscle and veins developed through manual labour. He loved Danny’s hands that were large and calloused and gentle whenever he corrected Billy’s weightlifting form. Those hands were slow moving molasses, except on the court, and Billy never worried that one would suddenly come at him as a sharp jab to the ribs or punch to the stomach. He loved Danny’s eyes that crinkled at the corners, smiled always, even when his mouth wasn’t smiling. Billy loved Danny fiercely, so much so that when Billy saw him, his heart would beat faster and his breath would catch in his throat. Billy was desolate when Danny left for college, but, also, secretly relieved – he’d managed to hide his feelings from Danny – because he didn’t think he could bear it if Danny looked at him with disgust. It would have destroyed him.)

Billy is sitting in the Camaro in front of the house on Cherry Lane. He’s seventeen and doesn’t think he’d ever been this tired. It is like he could just sink into his seat – disappear – he doesn’t know how his body had enough energy to hold its molecules together. It’d been a long drive to Hawkins and he’d purposely gone slower so he could have some more time on his own. He’d mourned all the places he would never see again – places that he associated with his mother (place-memory was almost as good as scent-memory). He’d tried to exhale his hatred and anger through the open window as he drove, thinking that maybe if he spread it across the country then it would finally leave him alone, instead of whispering in the back of his mind, like an itch that just wouldn’t quite go away. But, no. It hung on, claws and teeth in his back, constant pain and irritation, an open wound that would never quite heal. And, when Billy had pulled up to that house on Cherry Lane, he’d felt his defenses snap up, his face shut down, and despair leaden his guts. He can see Neil through the window, arms crossed over his chest, lips pursed in a scowl, jaw muscles clenched. Neil is waiting for him and Billy is going to get it for being so fucking late. Guess he’d have to keep his body together for a little while longer.

(Billy’s memories of his mom were fading. When he thought of her, she was an amalgamation of separate parts – long blonde hair, blue eyes, delicate hands that fluttered about when she talked – she was becoming a patchwork quilt in his brain, unravelling at the edges, pieces falling away. He couldn’t remember her as a whole only just as disappearing fragments – the sum of the parts less than the whole. And Neil had gotten rid of any pictures of her “to make Susan more comfortable.” So, Billy, resigned, took his mother – his memories of her – and buried her deep in his heart just as her body had been buried six feet under almost four years ago. 

But he couldn’t quite let go of all of his mom’s things – her books had been precious to her and Neil had already thrown away the book of fairy tales – _Did I ever tell you that this was my book and my dad, your grandpa, would read these stories to me?_ – and Billy couldn’t stand losing anymore of the words that linked her to him. When Billy read them, he could picture her reading the same page, running her fingers along the letters, stroking her thumb over the cover, and he felt closer to her – like she’d existed in the real world, not just in his memories – Neil couldn’t completely erase her. Billy had stashed Dylan Thomas’s _Collected Poems, 1934–1952_ and a book of William Shakespeare’s sonnets under the Camaro’s passenger seat – his reasoning was that if Neil was ever in the car then he would be driving it and Billy would be in the passenger seat. Probably dying.)

Billy is spinning, landing back on his feet, beer streaming down his chest. He is still seventeen, at some stupid Halloween party, and sees Steve Harrington – _really sees him_ – for the first time. Billy is already pleasantly buzzed. It is easy being king here, so much easier than back in Cali. He’d played the role so often he could slip into it like putting on an old worn shirt. But – when he meets Steve’s eyes, sees how calm and collected he is, sees how he just doesn’t _care_ – Billy wished he could change the shirt, put on something starched and new, more like person he actually wanted to be, so Steve could see Billy – _really see him_. Billy can’t though. Tommy’s got his arm thrown around his shoulders, trying to get under Steve’s skin by saying, “We got ourselves a new Keg King, Harrington.” Ha. Tommy is so desperate for Steve’s attention. But, Billy supposes, he would be too. 

Can you see me now, Steve?

Billy is leaning against the Camaro, smoking, before school starts. He is staring at Steve, feeling attraction ripple through him, because, yes, he does have a type – long, lanky guys with dark hair. He hasn’t interacted with Steve much yet, just watched him – not in a creepy way, he tells himself, he just wants to memorize Steve’s face – the line of his jaw, the way his brows arched, his large brown eyes that have massive bags (that kid clearly needs to get some sleep), his straight nose, the shape of his mouth when he smiles, his soft hair (that Billy just wants to run his fingers through) – Billy thinks Steve has a face to write poetry about. Not that Billy would ever do that, but just in case, Billy needs to consume all the details, bring them all into himself – so he can imagine that perfect face later, when he’s alone, surrounded by ugliness and despair and pain. 

Billy is on the court, screening Steve, wanting to get closer – to just touch him – it is the perfect time, he can make it look like an accident. Shame and disgust _and bile_ flood his throat – he thinks of when Neil “touches” him, if slamming a fist into his kidneys is touching, and how much Billy hates that unwanted contact. Steve would probably react the same way to Billy – it is the same thing, Billy trying to assert dominance over Steve, Neil trying to assert dominance over Billy. It is a cycle that Billy can’t break. But. But it’s basketball and Steve is playing the game like he has no idea what his presence is doing to Billy. He throws an arm out, his hand touching Billy’s bare chest and. And Billy wants to stay in that moment forever – Steve is touching him. Steve is looking at him. And Billy just wants to bask in that attention, he wants to hold on to it for as long as he can. So, he gets the ball and starts talking shit. And then slams past Steve in Danny’s patented layup, because he can’t just stand and dribble the ball in front of Steve for the rest of practice. 

Steve is lying on the ground and Billy reaches for his hand – feels Steve’s firm long-fingered grip, feels the small bones of Steve’s hand that are so delicate and so breakable and so _vulnerable_ – Billy feels how easily he could squeeze, apply the right pressure at the right point, and knows that he could break them – break Steve – and he wonders if this is what Neil feels like. Billy wants to throw up.

Instead, Billy pulls Steve up and gives him the advice that Danny relayed so long ago. “You were moving your feet. Plant them next time. Draw a charge.” He tries to convey everything else with his eyes – I’m trying to help, don’t be so vulnerable, people are going to walk all over you, protect yourself, let me protect you, let me touch you, let me, let me, _let me_ – but the moment is too long and Billy is overwhelmed by how much those words are trying to force their way out of his mouth. It is all he can do to clench his jaw and shove Steve away – because he can’t be vulnerable, because then Steve would know – he would _know_ – how much Billy wants him. 

Billy is standing in the shower trying to ignore Steve standing next to him. He is listening as Tommy tries to rile Steve up about Steve’s girlfriend – apparently ex-girlfriend now – and feels desire creep up his spine. He throws Steve the half-lidded eyes and smirk he learned from Danny, and says, “Don’t take it too hard, man. Pretty boy like you has got nothing to worry about.” But what he means is, “I could fall in love with you – you’ll never be alone.” Never. And, yeah, Billy supposes he is bordering on possessive. But it isn’t like he is acting on these feelings. Because shit like that would get him killed.

I kept my promise, Steve, I did fall in love with you. Do you think you could have loved me, too?

Billy is furious and hurting and just so fucking tired. He is tired of Neil, he is tired of Max, he is tired of Susan, he is tired of this weather. He is so tired of being afraid. But he is also vibrating with uncontained energy – it races along his bones, sets fire to his nerves, turns his stomach into knots. He needs to expel it somehow. Needs to get rid of it before it tears him apart – bursting out of him with such intensity that it would leave nothing left – maybe a Billy-shaped hole in the universe. Or maybe nothing and it would be like he never existed. Maybe that would be better. So, when Neil slams him into the wall and tells him to find “his sister,” Billy feels his control slip.

When Billy gets to the Byers’ place and sees Steve standing on the deck, he feels his control slip further. “Am I dreaming, or is that you, Harrington?”

Steve responds with, “Yeah, it’s me. Don’t cream your pants.”

Billy feels the last reins on his control vanish. Steve is standing here, staring at him with something that looks like resignation tinged with disgust. It kicks Billy’s feet out from under him. Does Steve know? Is he going to tell Neil? Is Billy going to die that night? Billy feels betrayed.

His fury and hate and shame ride the waves of energy, exploding out him with his fists. He hears himself yelling, “I've been waiting to meet this ‘King Steve’, everybody's talking so much about.” He sees himself throwing punches. He catches his reflection in the window and all he sees is _Neil_. There is a Billy-shaped hole in the universe and Neil has filled it up. Then Max stabs him in the neck and, as Billy loses consciousness, he hopes he’ll never wake up again – that he could be enveloped in the dark and silence. 

The world doesn’t even grant him that. He doesn’t deserve that quick, painless death. He doesn’t deserve that peace. No. He is a villain and must play his role.

He wakes up on the floor of the Byers’ house, his Camaro gone, and has to walk home to face the consequences. Neil breaks his ribs, gives him a concussion, and bruises his kidneys – he is pissing blood and throwing up and gasping for air for weeks. 

Ha. If only he’d died then. If only Neil had hit him just a bit harder. Think of all the lives you would have saved, Dad. You’d have been a fucking hero. 

Billy is watching Steve, cataloging his facial expressions, tracking his movements. And, yes, that was rather ominous, given that he’d beaten Steve’s face in a few months before, but he isn’t going to hurt him (again). Billy sees the way Steve looks at Wheeler, that hurt and wistfulness crossing his face when she isn’t looking. Billy sees the way Steve’s eyes soften at the edges when he sees those brats he drives around, especially that loud, curled-haired one. Billy sees the way Steve’s smiles cover his whole face – deepening his laugh lines, crinkling his eyes, throwing his head back in an expression of openness. Billy sees the way Steve’s mouth tightens, the lips thinning and drawing together, whenever Tommy goes after Byers. Steve’s hands curl up into fists and his jaw clenches as if he is holding himself back from beating the shit out of Tommy – Billy lauded Steve’s self-control – that pissant deserved to be taken down a few pegs. Billy sees the way Steve’s limbs relax in the shower after practice, the broadness of his shoulders, the slimness of his hips – and feels like a creep. 

Billy sees those things and falls further in love with Steve. He wants Steve’s smiles. He wants Steve’s protection. He wants to kiss away the pain that crosses Steve’s face. He wants Steve to look at him and want the same things. Billy wants and wants and _wants_.

And, cue the last scene, Billy hoped. It was the worst one and he wished he could go back to wanting Steve – die while thinking of Steve’s eyes – Steve looking at him with kindness and understanding and, maybe, the slight hints of love. But no, he didn’t deserve that. He didn’t get to die unafraid, given what he’d done to all those people. He was going to die in terror and agony. 

Billy is talking to himself in the middle of the woods – like, literally, his doppelganger had strolled out in an ominous fog – the start of every horror movie, ever. He’s eighteen and doesn’t understand what he is seeing. Something had happened in the Steelworks and he couldn’t remember it. But he is so afraid. The Billy standing in front of him says, “Build what you see.” And Billy does. And he wishes he hadn’t. Because he can’t take it back. And soon he would be dead, unable to apologize, to explain, to do anything other than be the villain. 

Billy could remember what he had said to Heather and to the others when he delivered them to that monster – “Don't be afraid. It'll all be over soon. Just try to hold still” – and Billy hoped he could take his own fucked up advice. Because he was dying, and it hurt, and he was afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all liked this one; it kind of got away from me and took a bit longer to flesh out. Any comments or kudos are greatly appreciated!
> 
> Stay safe.


	4. rave at the close of day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I decided to split this chapter up into two - it just worked better with the pacing!

Billy was dying. This was a fact. He knew it like he knew Steve Harrington would never love him.

Why would Steve Harrington ever love him? Billy had beaten the crap out of him in November and never apologized for it. He’d been watching him over the past few months, and he was _almost_ certain Steve had caught him looking a few times. (As evidenced by Steve’s furrowed brow and the extreme look of confusion that crossed his face, sometimes tinged with fear, sometimes with annoyance, sometimes with a thoughtfulness that Billy couldn’t quite identify.) Billy had been taken over by some fucking demon thing and gave it people so it could form a fucking body from them. He’d almost killed all the kids that Steve seemed to love like siblings. He had done these things, sometimes as himself – complete control over his actions and his body – and sometimes as a puppet – a voyeur in his own head, watching his hands do things he never thought they’d do – and he regretted all of them. 

And now Billy was lying on the floor in a pool of blood and weird monster goo – which he was pretty sure was made up of the monster’s viscous essence and the _actual_ people he gave it – slowly dying. Fuck. 

Actually, now that he thought about it, he’d been lying on the mall floor for seconds at most – the fireworks had stopped, the kids were no longer screaming, the monster had collapsed. To quote Hamlet, the rest is silence. (But he didn’t have a loyal Horatio to tell his story, to grieve for him, to mourn his noble heart. Ha. Billy didn’t have a noble heart.) So he was, in fact, dying rather quickly. Fuck. 

Billy thought he could hear Max calling his name. Maybe if he had lived, they could have learned to be actual brother and sister. Especially now that he knew about some of the fucked-up shit Max had been dealing with. And Steve knew about it too. What was up with that? Was this whole town in on it – some grand old joke they played on the newcomers? Billy doubted it, given the looks of absolute fear on everyone’s faces when he turned them over to that thing. Clearly, they had not been living their lives intending to melt into some Cthulhu-esque entity, set on death and destruction. And petty revenge.

Billy didn’t know how he was still alive. He was pretty sure that last tentacle thing had punctured his heart. And, you know, hearts were pretty crucial to the whole being alive thing. 

Billy’s eyes were open – he confirmed this by blinking them closed, then open again – but he couldn’t see much of anything. Hazy colours painted pictures that didn’t sharpen and clarify with his continued blinking. But then he realized he no longer had the energy to move his eyelids and had only thought he had been blinking. Had he ever been this tired? Did his body no longer contain the energy to hold its molecules together?

Billy was almost certain his life had stopped its flashing, completed the gambit, approached the finish line. Would he know when he was dead? Would he continue to feel pain? Would he feel fear? Would he feel anything at all? Billy didn’t know, but his animalistic hindbrain was trying to fight to stay alive – just one more push of his heart, just one more breath, just one more second of agony. 

At least he was himself again, and he was pretty sure he’d saved that girl – or, at least, given someone else more time to save her. And– 

Billy was swimming in and out of consciousness, his breaths were coming in short gasps, he couldn’t open his eyes anymore – or at least he hoped that was the case because everything was so dark. He thought he could hear Max screaming, but he wasn’t sure. He thought–

he could hear her, but it was quieter now; things were getting muffled, like someone had stuffed cotton in his ears. He was trying to say something – maybe to Max, maybe to Steve. Steve wasn’t even here, though. Billy was– 

in so much pain. Who knew that getting your lungs pierced would hurt so much? Billy was afraid of dying – he was trying to hold on (rage against the dying of the light) – he didn’t want Max to feel the same furious tears and betrayal that he went through with his mother. Not that Max cared about him anyways, although, he was sure he could–

feel someone touching his face, grasping his shoulders. Billy tried to open his eyes and realized they were wide open – he thought he glimpsed Max’s red hair. He told himself it was Max and at least he wouldn’t die alone (unlike his mother). He gasped again, and said, “I’m sorry,” to Max. She looked so sad when she came into focus – he didn’t think anyone had ever looked so sad for him like that. He tried to take another breath and dipped into–

blackness. But that girl was there, the one the monster thing had wanted dead, so Billy assumed he wasn’t dead yet. Did people have this many coherent thoughts while they were bleeding out? Maybe he was already dead and his brain needed catch up? Maybe– 

“Billy,” said the girl. She was crouched over him in the darkness, it seemed like his was lying in water or something. Billy was getting cold and so tired. He slowly blinked and wondered if he would ever open his eyes again. 

“Billy,” said the girl again, more urgency in her voice – it made Billy think back to Coach Reynolds calling his name for the basketball team. “Billy,” the girl said a third time, louder, shaking his shoulders in that dark place. 

“Wha…” Billy was trying to say what, but his mouth wasn’t forming words anymore. His voice trailed off, the unfinished word hanging in the air and then dissipating like smoke. 

“Billy, you have to hold on – help is coming.” The girl was leaning close to his face, so their eyes met. She looked sad and scared. She shouldn’t be, Billy wasn’t a monster anymore. He wasn’t going to hurt her. 

“Tired,” Billy whispered, happy that he’d been able to say the whole word this time. 

“Yes,” said the girl, nodding, “but think” there was a pause and the girl was staring over his head, like she was seeing something far away, “think,” she continued, looking back at Billy’s face, “of Steve.”

Billy could do that. He thought of Steve’s warm brown eyes that crinkled at the corners – just like Danny’s. He thought of Steve’s soft looking hair that Billy ached to drag his fingers through and now would never get a chance to. He thought of Steve’s open smile that spread easily across his face, especially when he was with those kids. Billy had pretended – before this whole possession bullshit – that Steve smiled at him like that. But now Steve would never smile at him like that. Billy felt a tight knot of regret form in his gut – he wished he had apologized. He wished he had said something, anything to make things right. Billy felt tears slipping out of the corners of his eyes, rolling toward his ears, leaving streaks through the grime and monster remnants. 

Billy wished he could have just a bit more time.

He wanted his mom and her gentle affection – stroking his hair, kissing his head, hugging him close – that made him feel loved by just existing as he was. 

He wanted the California sunshine of his childhood, the warmth of it spreading across his back, wrapping him up in a blanket. He wanted the sun, the beach, the waves, the freedom and happiness that he had felt back then.

He wanted Steve to comfort him, to hold his hand, to smile at him, to tell him that he wasn’t alone. 

He wanted–

“Billy,” said the girl again. She was touching his face like she had earlier – when she was trying to bring him back to himself, when she’d said he’d been happy – but, now, their positions were reversed – Billy lying on the floor in agony and her looming over him. She was still trying to save him, though, still trying to bring him back to himself. She was–

“Hold…” Her voice faded out even though he could see her lips moving. Billy hoped she would have good life – she seemed like good person – clearly one of those hero-types. Who else would stay with a villain while they died?

Then she was gone. The floor covered in water was gone. Everything was gone. He was floating in darkness. Because he was dying, and it hurt, and he was afraid.

No. Billy felt his heart stop, felt his lungs burn for air, felt all his muscles loosen. He was dead. His brain just needed to catch up. He was dead. He was afra–

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read! Any feedback is always appreciated!
> 
> Stay safe!


	5. into that good night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! It exploded! And it has been beta'd by the wonderfully patient [red_plaid_on_red_plaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_plaid_on_red_plaid), but I'm sure I missed some stuff. 
> 
> I don't think there are any additional warnings for this chapter - but if I missed something, please let me know!

_He is floating in a void. It’s peaceful. He isn’t afraid. Why would he be afraid? There’s nothing to fear when there’s just nothing. Shouldn’t there be a light or something – isn’t he supposed to be moving towards a light?_

“No, stop. Dust- stop, what are you doing?”

“Steve.”

“No. Seriously, Dustin, why are you _poking_ him?”

“Because science, Steve! _Science_.”

“Science? What does that even mean? That doesn’t explain anything.”

“Curiosity voyages, Steve.”

“Huh?”

“Research! We gotta ask him what he felt when he wakes up.”

“Yeah… I’m pretty sure comas don’t work that way, buddy.”

“But the doctor said…”

“Yeah, the doctor said it might help to _talk_ to him, not poke him.”

“But maybe it’ll _annoy_ him enough that he’ll wake up.”

“Yeah, seriously don’t think comas work like that. Dustin, stop!”

“Steve…”

“No.”

“Stee-eeeve.”

“No, Dustin, just no.”

“Fine… but you owe me ice cream.”

“Why? Because I’m not going to keep letting you poke Billy, who’s in a coma, and can’t defend himself?”

_He’s standing on beach, holding an ice cream cone in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. The sun’s setting, creating swathes of oranges and pinks across the blue sky. The waves are lapping, bringing the water up over the tops of his feet. He can feel the sand being sucked out from under them when the water flows back out. He can hear someone calling a name. His name? He doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter._

“Oh.”

“Hi, Steve.”

“Uh, hi Max. Wasn’t expecting you to be here.”

“He’s my brother, Steve, why wouldn’t I be here?”

“I thought he was your stepbrother?”

“Almost dying while trying to save the world upgraded him to full brother.”

“Oh… Stop glaring at me. Besides, shouldn’t you be in school?”

“Ummmmm…”

“It’s two in the afternoon… on a Thursday… Isn’t it like the first week of classes?”

“Maybe.”

“How’d you even get here? Does your mom know where you are?”

“My mom dropped me off – she stayed for a bit before she went to work.”

“But, like, she does know school is a thing, right?”

“Why do you care, Steve?”

“Because you’re a kid, Max. You need to do normal kid things.”

“Like what? Sitting with my brother, who may never wake up from a coma because he tried to save the world from _interdimensional monsters_. That kind of normal kid thing?”

“No. Like school. Or playing the stupid dragon thing–”

“Dungeons and Dragons.”

“Yeah. Playing that with the other shitheads. Going to the arcade, skateboarding, doing whatever girly shit you and El do.”

“We read comics, Steve. We kill monsters and read comics. We don’t do _girly_ shit.”

“Right, yeah – all that normal kid shit – not the killing monsters shit.”

“And why do I get to do this ‘normal kid shit’, when Billy doesn’t?”

“Uh.”

“If Billy has to stay in the hospital, then at least I can stay with him.”

“Max–”

“ _Steve–_ ”

“Max. C’mon. He wouldn’t want you to spend all day with him, especially now that school’s started.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yeah. I mean, he was a huge dick. But–”

“Steve, that wasn’t his fault, Neil–”

“Neil is a bastard of the lowest form.”

“Yeah. I can’t believe my mom married him.”

“Well. Maybe she sees something in him that we just don’t?”

“Like what, his excellent ability at fracturing ribs?”

“Max!”

“Steve! C’mon. You can’t be trying to defend Neil. You saw Billy’s x-rays. _You saw them._ I didn’t help him–”

“Max, you were – _you are_ – a kid. Yes, a very scary one sometimes, but still a kid. _A kid._ Did you know about Neil?”

“Sorta. Maybe. I dunno. I knew Neil yelled and I heard banging sometimes. But Billy was just such a dick and Neil was scary – I just didn’t want to think about it.”

“Hey, hey. That’s okay, Max. It’s _okay_. You’re okay. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. Look at him, Steve, he’s in a fucking coma–”

“Yeah and that’s the Mind Flayer’s fault – not yours, not his, not fucking Neil’s.”

“But–”

“But what, Max? You tried to save him, remember? You and El got him into that sauna. You tried to force it outta him.”

“But if he coulda talked to me before then, maybe it wouldn’t have happened?”

“Maybe. And maybe if I was nicer to him, or if he was nicer to me, or if Neil wasn’t such a fucked-up human being… All these what-ifs. They don’t do any good now.”

“Do you wish you could change it though?”

“All the fucking time. I think about everyday.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

_He’s sitting in a bookstore, in an armchair in the corner. He’s got a stack of comics on his lap – Wonder Woman – he hasn’t read that one before and can’t remember why he’d picked it up. Sitting across from him is a boy, well man really, with dark hair that swoops back from his head – it defies gravity. He wishes his own hair did that, but it’s sitting lankly on his shoulders._

_The guy across from him smiles, says, “Hi Billy, watcha reading?”_

_Is he Billy? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t feel like a Billy – Billy is a name for someone younger, more innocent, someone whose mother is alive, and father doesn’t fracture his ribs. He isn’t Billy._

“Hey, Max, where’d you find these?”

“In his car, under the passenger seat. I think he was hiding them from Neil.”

“Neil’d probably set them on fire.”

“Yeah. He’s a fucking asshole.”

“So… Billy liked – likes – poetry?”

“I dunno, Steve. We didn’t talk about shit like that – mostly he just yelled at me when Neil made him drive me places. But I guess I know why he did that now.”

“He still shouldn’t’ve done that.”

“Billy doesn’t have much self-control.”

“Heh. Yeah, I guess so. Definitely not his strong suit.”

“It’s weird.”

“What is?”

“Going through his things and finding out he was an actual person.”

“Most people are actual people.”

“But he was just so angry all the time.”

“I guess he figured it was easier to be angry than to feel whatever he was feeling?”

“Woah, Steve.”

“What?”

“When did you get all deep on me?”

“Shut up. Just because I’ve got this pretty face, doesn’t mean I can’t have insight into shit.”

“You told Dustin to ‘pretend to not care about me’ to get me to like him – you have no fucking insight. And your face is not that pretty.”

“Shit. He told you that?”

“Yep.”

“Fine. Maybe I’m growing as a person. Comes from hanging around with all you dorks. And my face is totally pretty.”

“Uh-huh, right.”

“Anyways, poetry books? They must’ve been important if he hid them?”

“Maybe…”

“Well, they don’t look brand new. It’s not like he bought them and threw them in there right before getting possessed.”

“Yeah.”

“It looks like he read this one a lot. It’s sad.”

“You read it before?”

“Nah. I’m not much for poetry. Shit’s confusing.”

“You find everything confusing.”

“Hey!”

“Robin told me it took you a month to memorize the menu at Scoops.”

“That’s because I didn’t care. Who wants to put in extra effort when you’re being paid a pittance? And when were you talking to Robin?”

“Last week. She hangs out at the arcade with us sometimes. She’s cool.”

“She _is_ cool – don’t tell her I said that.”

“Ha. Right.”

“Have you read any of these?”

“I skimmed some.”

“Maybe you could read some to him? The doc said we should be talking to him – you know – familiar voices and such.”

“Steve, I doubt he wants to hear my voice – he hates me.”

“Hey, I’m sure he doesn’t hate you. Max, you’re the closest thing he’s got to family – unless you know where his mom is–”

“Dead.”

“Oh. Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, all the more reason to read to him?”

“What if it’s too late? What if he doesn’t wake up?”

“Hey, hey. It’s okay – Billy is strong – if anyone can kick a coma in the ass it’ll be him.”

_He’s standing in a graveyard. There’s a red-headed girl next to him, her hair pulled into neat twin braids, and a skateboard propped up by one foot. She’s speaking, softly. He can hear tears in her voice and wishes she’d stop. “Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight,” she says. Then her voice fades out. She fades out too. And he’s alone, standing at the foot of a grave, the name on the headstone isn’t coming into focus. He blinks trying to bring it out of the haze. He wonders if he knew the person buried here._

“El. What are you doing here?”

“Talking to Billy.”

“Is he answering?”

“Steve.”

“El.”

“He’s sleeping. He can’t talk.”

“Hey, his eyes are moving. Is he dreaming?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, can you… you know, check?”

“I’m not supposed to.”

“El, please? It’s been four months.”

“Okay. Be quiet.”

“Okay.”

“He’s dreaming about the beach. His mom. The waves. He’s happy.”

“Good.”

“He can hear us. Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“Like coming in and out, like getting a bad signal on the radio?”

“Ah.”

“Keep talking, Steve. He likes your voice.”

“Oh. Ah. I didn’t think he liked me that much.”

“No. He likes you.”

“Oh?”

“He was thinking about you at the mall. He was afraid. You made him less afraid.”

“Huh.”

“Yes. Talk to him.”

_He’s standing on a beach, there’s a girl next to him with shoulder length dark brown hair. She’s smiling at him and his heart breaks a little. He thinks he might have tried to hurt her at one point. He thinks he might have tried to kill her. He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t_ want _to remember._

_She touches his arm and says,_ “Billy, it’s time to wake up.”

_He shakes his head, “I am awake – I don’t need to wake up.”_

“Now as I was young and easy under the apple bogs. Bogs?”

“Um. Boughs, El.”

“Boughs. What’s a ‘boughs,’ Max?”

“Bough. Singular. Boughs. Plural.”

“What’s a bough?”

“Like a branch or something. I dunno. It’s supposed to be poetic.”

“Oh.”

“Keep reading, you gotta catch up to everyone if you want to come to school with me in September.”

“Okay. Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs. About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green…”

_Billy, can you hear me?_

“…the night above the dingle starry, time let me hail and climb. Max, what’s ‘dingle’?”

“I have no fucking clue. Maybe we shoulda brought something else?”

“But Billy likes this?”

“I guess? I really don’t know. Here, try this one instead. The spine’s cracked, maybe he read it a lot?”

“Um. Do not go gentle into that good night, old age should burn and rave at the close of day; rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

“Hey! Look. Are those tears? Has he done this before? El. What does this mean? I gotta get the nurse.”

“Billy, don’t cry. I’ll stop reading. It’s sad. Don’t be sad.”

_Billy, it’s been six months. It’s time to wake up._

_Billy._

_He hears someone calling his name – Billy. Then the dark-haired girl is in front of him. They’re standing in a void – but there’s a layer of water on the floor. His feet are wet. He’s wearing a hospital gown. His ribs are aching. But not in the excruciating agony he remembers from before – how long has it been? The girl takes his hand and leads him to a bright area of colour – a hospital room. He sees someone lying on the bed. He’s pale, thin, drawn. There are bruise-colour circles under his eyes. He’s hooked up to machines by various tubes. He thinks he can see a tracheotomy scar at the base of his throat._

_“I-is that me?” he croaks, looking at the girl._

“Yes, it’s you, Billy,” _says the girl, voice soft._

_“Did I try to hurt you?”_

“Not you. Something bad using you.”

_“But it was still my body that did it?”_

“Yes. But it’s okay. You’re just you now.”

_“Can I be not me?” he asks, remembering people screaming as he told them to ‘not be afraid’ and ‘hold still.’_

“I don’t understand. You’re you. You’re Billy Hargrove.”

_“Who are you – did I meet you before that thing got me?”_

_The girl shook her head,_ “I’m Eleven – El – Jim calls me Jane. But Mike calls me El and I like Mike, so I like El.” _She smiles and blushes a bit._

_“Hi El. Uh, nice to meet you, I guess?” He sticks out his hand and sees how pale and fragile it looks. El takes it shakes it once. He goes to drop it, but she holds on – her hand much smaller than his._

_“I’m really sorry,” Billy whispers._

“I know,” _says El, gravely. Then she looks up at him and says,_ “I’ve done bad things too. I’m learning to be good. You can too. You don’t have to be bad.”

_Billy lets out a weak, gravelly laugh, “I don’t have to be the villain?”_

“So… El said you liked the sound of my voice. Uh. But like, not too sure what to talk about. Ummm… Right. Tommy is still a fucking dick. I’m surprised you didn’t beat him up last year. I was kinda hoping you would – like take him down a few pegs. He came into the video store today – god, can’t believe I’m still working there, it’s been like eight months – and he’s got Carol wrapped all around him. Guess they’re home for spring break or something – and he’s all like, ‘You’re such a loser, Harrington. Bet your daddy’s real fucking proud, only son working at some dinky hole-in-the-wall video store’ – and I wanted to hit him. It was like that time in November. Wow, it’s been more than a year since then – hey, I think I’ve talked to you now more than I did when you were awake, ha, the irony. Is it irony? Fuck, could never remember the meaning of that – anyways, I just wanted to wail on him. Y’know, like just let loose. Because, let’s face it, he’s not wrong. My dad can’t even look at me anymore. Guess you know a thing or two about that. Sorry, not cool. They still haven’t found him – Neil – he skipped town shortly after you ended up in here. Probably worried about all the evidence Hop’d find on your x-rays. Jesus, Billy, do you know how many fractures you have – had? – they’re healed, but still, how aren’t you in pain all the time?”

_He’s sitting in the lifeguard chair at the pool. There’s a storm coming in the distance – he can see the dark clouds rolling in, hanging heavy in the sky. He can see the forks of red and purple lightning – he’s pretty sure lightning isn’t supposed to be that colour. When he looks down, he sees himself standing there, looking up at him. It’s his doppelganger. The monster’s back. It was never really gone. He’s going to kill everyone he knows. He blinks, fighting back panic and tears. And El’s there._

“It’s okay, Billy. You’re okay. It’s gone. You’re just dreaming. It’s okay. I’ll protect you.”

_Billy climbs down from the chair, panic still brewing. El puts out her hand and he grabs it, anchoring himself as the storm blows over them._

“Hey, amigo. Brought you a beer. Nah, just kidding, it’s for me. Don’t tell the nurses though, they’re scary. Man, have you seen that one with that fucking stare – just needs some victory rolls then she’d be the spitting image of Nurse Ratched. Don’t do anything that’ll get you on her bad side. Ha. I’m more likely to get on her bad side than you – you’re a model patient – never heard anyone complain about you. At least I can walk outta here if she starts giving me funny looks. Oh. Sorry, low blow. You gotta start fighting back here, man – people are gonna walk all over you. Gotta keep up your reputation.”

_He’s sitting on one edge of a couch at Tina’s party – he knows it’s Tina’s party because he’s wearing that stupid Terminator costume. Steve’s sitting next to him, like right next to him. Their thighs are touching, heat is radiating from Steve’s making Billy shiver, paradoxically. Steve’s got his arms spread across the back of the couch – if Billy leaned back, he could use one as a pillow. Steve’s looking at him, not blinking. Billy keeps looking from his eyes to his hair to his lips to the wall across the room. Billy doesn’t know what to do with Steve’s scrutiny. Billy can feel Steve shifting his arm – the one that’s behind Billy’s head – and, suddenly, he can feel Steve drag his fingertips up the side of his neck. It’s so gentle, so tender. He freezes and then shudders as Steve drops his hand to Billy’s shoulder and squeezes._

_“Hey, amigo,” Steve says, “brought you a beer. You look parched.” Billy reaches for it, expecting Steve to pass it over. Instead, Steve just grabs his outstretched hand and grips it tightly. Billy feels anchored down – one of Steve’s hands is on his shoulder, the other holding his hand. Steve strokes his thumb down the back of Billy’s hand._

_“What are ya doing,” Billy croaks, surprised, furtively looking around to make sure no one is watching them. The room is empty. The room is gone. It’s a couch sitting in a dark void – the floor is water. Steve doesn’t seem to notice – he’s still staring at Billy._

_“Just looking, dude. You’re finally still enough that I can take you in. You gotta calm down. Not everyone is out to get you.”_

_“You sure?”_

_“Yeah. I’m not. Max isn’t. El has threatened everyone with pain if they hurt you.”_

_Billy clears his throat and whispers, “Neil?”_

_“He’s gone. Skipped town.” Steve then pulls Billy closer with the arm that’s resting on his shoulders and rests his forehead against Billy’s. “I’ll kill him if he comes back. Don’t waste your energy being afraid of him.”_

“Tommy came in again. Dude, I don’t get it, I thought spring break was a fucking week – he’s been here almost two. He decided to try to stare me down, just leaned on the counter and like, looked at me. Joke’s on him, I got lotsa practice staring people down – gotta be intimidating some way when you look as pretty as I do, ha, kidding – but like, still he decided a staring contest? I dunno, really fucking weird. Then he just winked or something – maybe blinked? – and left. Like just sauntered out – good word, sauntered – Rob’s been reading for her SATs, tryna memorize all those fancy words, she tells me the good ones. Apparently, they’re all good – it’s way too many words. Gotta try to keep my brain cells for the important shit, I got too few as it is – or at least that’s what my dad keeps saying. God, he’s such a dick. Maybe him and Neil woulda got along? Probably just try to ‘out-man’ each other. At least my dad never fractured my ribs. Billy, I am sorry. I shoulda been paying more attention – you know, I did notice them – the bruises – but I just assumed you got into another fight, that you deserved it. I’m an asshole. You didn’t deserve any of this – not Neil, not the stupid Mind Flayer, not the Upside Down, not those government suits that keep tryna take pictures – I mean, c’mon, there are no more bruises or open wounds or any of that shit. You’re just sleeping now – healing, supposedly. But, man, it’d be nice if you woke up soon. I’m starting to feel like a freak – my closest friends are a bunch of preteens – well, I guess teens, now, shit, they’re in high school – a sarcastic lesbian – uh, I shouldn’t’ve said that, don’t tell anyone, okay? – and a dude who’s in a coma – I mean, he’s a great listener though, but, like getting tired of hearing my own voice. Billy, man, just wake up.”

_He’s on the court, dribbling the ball, slowly, as he walks towards Steve. It’s just the two of them – most of the lights are off leaving the gym oddly lit, creating dark shadows in the corners and along the bleachers._

_“Hey,” Steve says as Billy stops in front of him, “you’re looking good – those wounds are healing up nice – soon they’ll just be scars, just a reminder.”_

_“Scars?” Billy asks, confused and looks down at his torso. He’s shirtless and there is a white starburst scar spread over the left side of his chest. He looks and sees smaller ones along his ribs. Billy twists and can feel them pulling at the healthy skin around them – tightness – not just the scar tissue – pulls across his chest._

_“It’s okay, man,” Steve says, “we all got scars.” He points to the scar on his forehead, where Billy had smashed a plate over his head in November._

_“I-I’m really sorry,” Billy whispers as he lets the basketball drop – it bounces away, rolls into the shadows._

_“It’s okay, man,” Steve repeats, as he brings his arm up to grasp Billy on the shoulder – it’s a reassuring gesture, but Billy still flinches, expecting force behind that touch – a punch or a jab or something else that Billy deserves._

_“Billy,” Steve says, voice almost pleading, “you gotta wake up.”_

_“I am awake.”_

_“No, dude, you’re not.”_

_“I am… Aren’t I?”_

“Hey, amigo… Look, I know you’ve had some really shitty luck in your life – Neil’s a fucking asshole, your mom’s dead, you were almost killed by an interdimensional monster – but, like, sometimes I envy you. Not most of the time, mind you, but like sometimes, like now. Like, it’s what, three in the morning – ha, I’ve been here so often the nurses let me just wander in, even Nurse Ratched, she’s so fucking creepy, seriously – and here you are, sleeping peacefully – not a care in the world – and I-I, well I had to leave all the lights on in my house. Had to bring that bat upstairs – you know, the one that almost took your balls off – had to steal some of my dad’s scotch – and, dude, he will definitely notice that when he gets back, another thing to add to the ‘why Steve is a piece of shit and not actually a Harrington’ list – just to get some sleep. And I got an hour, maybe. I don’t know. I shouldn’t even have driven here – pretty sure I’m still drunk and so sleep-deprived the traffic lights started dancing – like traffic lights don’t normally do that, right? They stay put, change colours, you know, red, green, yellow, the usual colours, not blue and pink and purple? – and that’s really not safe. If Hop’d found me, Billy, I’d be in fucking jail. I am so fucked. I just want to get some sleep.”

_He’s leaning against the headboard – he’s in his room. Steve’s sitting on his right and Max is on his left – they’re pressed into his sides and Billy feels safe and warm._

_“Do you think this is working?” Steve asks, leaning over to direct his question to Max._

_“I dunno,” she responds, “El thinks he’s getting better.”_

_“Then why isn’t he awake yet?”_

_“Brains are weird. Dustin thinks it’s the trauma – his brain just doesn’t think he’s ready yet.”_

_“Oh, I guess that makes sense.”_

_“Hey, what are you guys talking about?” asks Billy._

_They don’t respond. They don’t look at him. They can’t hear him._

_Billy yells, “Steve? Max? C’mon! Max… Steve… Why can’t you hear me? I’m right here.”_

_They don’t move. Billy no longer feels safe – he just feels alone. He doesn't know what to do._

“Billy – gotta a question for you. In your opinion, what’s worse – having a mom who loved you and is now dead and a father who beats the crap outta you or having two parents who literally do not give a shit about you? I mean, like on one hand, you knew love and now you know lotsa pain. But for me, well, I can’t remember the last time I got a hug. My parents haven’t been home in like, I dunno, two months? But at least my dad doesn’t hit me – hate to break it to you, but my only fractures are from you, bro. Ugh. Sorry, I shouldn’t be talking at you while drinking – bad combo – leads to a Steve with no fucking filter, which, inevitably leads to a Steve stuck in some quarter-life crisis – which is impossible because I haven’t lived a quarter of my life – at least I hope I haven’t, man, that would suck. Dude, you don’t know this, because, well, we never talked before and now you’re in a fucking coma, but, remember Tina’s party – the stupid Halloween one? You were dressed as the Terminator – man, I thought your costume was so cool until I realized it was pretty much what you wore everyday minus the shirt. You looked like you had no fucking cares in the world – like all you needed to worry about was stealing my title. And there I was, dealing with the Hollands, the Upside Down, Nancy pulling away from me – apparently, I’m bullshit – my whole world had gotten way too big – way too complicated. I was so jealous that you had things so easy – I didn’t know if I wanted to punch you or be you or just, I dunno, try to spread some of my pain around so I didn’t have to hold it all. Shitty of me, I know. Especially now I know about all the shit you were dealing with. I’m sorry, really sorry, Billy.

_He’s lying on his side in his bed, one hand tucked underneath his face and the other resting lightly on his thigh. The room is dark. Steve’s lying down next to him, facing him, mirroring Billy’s position. His face is lit by the glow of streetlights coming in through Billy’s window. Steve’s got huge bags under his red-rimmed and bloodshot eyes. His face is pale and worn._

_“You look tired,” Billy says, reaching out to stroke Steve’s hair back from his forehead – like Billy’s mom used to do when Billy was small._

_“I am,” Steve responds, “I can’t remember being this tired – I don’t know if my body has the energy to hold itself together.”_

_“I get that,” Billy says, because he does. He squeezes Steve’s shoulder, saying, “Let me help you hold it together. I got energy to spare. I can hold you up.”_

_Steve just slumps, like he’s let go of some tension that Billy didn’t even know was there until it was gone. Steve closes his eyes and Billy moves his hand back up to stroke Steve’s hair._

_“I’m sorry, really sorry, Billy,” Steve mumbles, voice already laced with sleep._

_“Steve, it’s okay. You’re okay. I got you.”_

“I know what it’s like. I had a bad papa. He hurt me. You’ll be okay – I’ll protect you from yours.”

“El?”

“Hi Steve.”

“He talking yet?”

“He talks to me.”

“Really?”

“Yes. He’s still far away though.”

“Far away, what do you mean by that?”

“He’s healing. It’s hard. He has to go deep below the surface.”

“Um. Okay. Sure. That totally makes sense.”

“Steve, he’ll wake when he’s ready.”

“But when will that be? It’s been almost ten months – the doctors are worried that he’s not making progress, or something.”

“Soon. He’s just bringing himself back together.”

“El. When is soon?”

“Soon.”

“That’s fucking bullshit. Fuck – sorry, shouldn’t’ve sworn.”

“Steve. He will wake up. Keep talking to him. He likes your voice.”

“You said that. How do you know?”

“It’s what got him to hold on, in the mall. He wanted to live to see you. He loves you.”

“Wait – what?”

“Yes. Like Mike loves me or Lucas loves Max.”

“Wait – Mike loves you and Lucas loves Max?”

“Duh.”

“Are you lying?"

“Friends don’t lie, Steve.”

“El, c’mon. You can’t just say shit like that. Billy doesn’t love me – he’s a dude.”

“Does that matter?”

“I mean, like, kinda? I dunno. It can be dangerous for that to be common knowledge.”

“But Robin loves girls.”

“Jesus! Did she tell you that or did you, you know, look?”

“Um.”

“El. That’s not stuff you should be sharing – it’s like, private, or some shit.”

“But if it makes her happy or it makes Billy happy, why is it dangerous?”

“I don’t know. Honestly. The world is a fucked-up place.”

“Worse than the Upside Down?”

“Uh. Not worse, just different. People can be monsters too.”

“I know. Papa was one.”

“Right. Please, El, don’t tell anyone else what you told me. Billy’s got enough to deal with when he wakes up, he doesn’t need a bunch of teens judging him.”

“They wouldn’t. But I won’t tell. But friends don’t lie.”

“Can you, I dunno, just avoid the question?”

“Still lying, Steve.”

“Fuck. Just be careful. That could get Billy killed if the wrong people find out.”

“If the monster-people find out?”

“Yeah.”

_He’s sitting on a hospital bed in the black void, elbows on his knees, hands dangling. El’s there opposite him, sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed._

_“Am I awake yet?” Billy asks._

_El shakes her head,_ “You’re sleeping still. You’ve been asleep for ten months.”

_“Ten months – it’s been that long?”_

“Yes – Steve’s getting worried. I’m sorry, Billy, I told him.”

_“You told him? Told him about what?”_

“That you love him. I didn’t know it was something he shouldn’t know.”

_“Oh. Uh. Good thing this is just a dream then.”_

“You’re in a dream, but I’m not.”

_“What does that mean?”_

“I’m visiting you – Steve just left – he said something about ‘processing’ and that he’d be back later. What does ‘processing’ mean?”

_“It means like thinking stuff over. You’re visiting me?”_

“Yes – visiting you in the hospital and here.”

_“Here, like here in this void?”_

“Yes. It’s part of my powers – looking into people’s minds.”

_“Of course, it is. I get fucking possessed and there’s a girl who can snoop around in people’s heads.” ___

____

“I’m trying not to snoop.”

____

_“Is that how you know about Steve?”_

____

“Yes, but from the mall. You were afraid – but you thought of him and it helped.”

____

_“So you just decided to tell him how I felt – feel?”_

____

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was wrong to tell him – love isn’t a bad thing.”

____

_“It is if you’re Neil.”_

____

“My papa was bad too. I didn’t know that until I found Mike and Jim. You found Steve. He cares. He’s confused though.”

____

_“He cares?”_

____

“Yes. He thinks about you a lot.”

____

_“He doesn’t know me, why would he care?”_

____

“Because he is good and kind. You need good and kind to be those things.” _El reaches out and rests her hand on the top of Billy’s knee._ “You can be good, too. You just need to wake up.”

____

_“I know – I’m trying. I just need to find the energy.”_

“So, uh, I know it’s been a couple of days and I’m sure you missed me – or maybe you liked the quiet. I dunno, dude, you’re not giving me much to work with. You don’t know this, but the only reason you’re alive is because of El, she made your heart pump with her _mind_ while me and Nance were doing CPR. I dunno how you lived, you were lucky, dude, seriously lucky that your heart hadn’t been obliterated. Man, I saw it from the second floor, and I thought you were a goner. And, honestly when I saw that, I was so fucking pissed – you’d gone from this fucking asshole to someone with _layers_ , and then you were going to fucking die and I didn’t have a chance to get to know this new, _layered_ person. Because I’d seen you, y’know, you were watching me all the time, bro. Seriously – you gotta work on your fucking subtlety. And I thought that maybe you were just biding your time, or some shit, until you could beat me up again. But you didn’t. And that was so fucking confusing. Billy, you’re just confusing. And now, now, I find out that you, well you… Uh. Dude, this is hard. Yeah, okay, c’mon, Steve, spit it out, he’s asleep. Okay, so, yeah, El said that you loved me. Like she actually said _loved_ and not liked. And I-I don’t really know what to do with that. Billy, I don’t remember the last time anyone loved me. I thought Nancy did, but she called me bullshit and she’s with Jonathan now and it’s fine because I don’t love her anymore anyways and it’s fine – I’m fine. But El said you do, or maybe it’s did? I dunno, you’ve been asleep for so long that maybe you don’t feel those things anymore. And, like, I dunno what to do with this new info – it’s seriously fucking me up – you keep changing more and more into a person that I want to know, or I wished I did know, or some shit like that, y’know? Like, maybe, we coulda been friends. Or something else. Dude, I dunno. I can’t figure this shit out until you wake up. So. Just. Wake. The. Fuck. Up. Billy.”

_Billy is six and listening to his mom read Cinderella._

____

_Billy is eight and hiding from his dad._

____

_Billy is ten and going to live forever._

____

_Billy is thirteen and going to die like his mother._

____

_Billy is fourteen and living for Danny’s gaze._

____

_Billy is sixteen and throwing punches._

____

_Billy is seventeen and crowding into Steve’s space, telling him to ‘draw a charge.’_

____

_Billy is eighteen and being held up by demon monster tentacle things that have punctured into his body, piercing his lungs, breaking his ribs, exploding his nerve endings with agony._

____

_Billy is eighteen and he’ll be eighteen forever. He’s afraid. He’s so afraid. He’s dying. He’s dead in the dark. He’s in a hole in the ground like his mom. He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s–_

not dead. Billy can feel tears rolling down his face towards his ears and he wonders, briefly, if he’s back in the void with El. His eyes are closed. He can feel his arms lying by his sides. He can feel the weight of the blanket on his legs. He can feel sunlight across his face. Billy waits, unsure if moving will break the spell – if the sun will go away and he’ll be back in the mall or he’ll be in the dark, dead, alone. Billy can hear himself breathing, can hear the machines monitoring his heart slowly beeping with every beat, can hear someone else shifting in a chair near his bed. Billy can hear a distinctly masculine throat clearing and for a second Billy thinks Neil is in the room with him. He hears the beeping increase as his heart rate picks up. Then, a warm, solid hand is wrapped around Billy’s forearm, it’s squeezing gently, thumb rubbing up and down the underside.

____

“Billy, it’s okay, you’re okay.” It’s Steve’s voice and Steve’s hand on his arm. Then Billy can hear Steve shifting and feels a shadow fall across his face blocking the warmth of the sun. A thumb brushes the tears away from one side and then the other side of Billy’s face. The touch is so tender that Billy wonders if he’s dead and somehow made it to an afterlife that he doesn’t deserve. Billy feels the sun again as Steve sits back down.

____

“So,” Steve says, “El says you’re getting closer. She and Max were here earlier. They’d switched to a book of limericks that Max’d found a few days ago. Man, they were both in stitches – I didn’t know limericks were so funny. Although, now that I think about it, they actually sounded pretty dirty – probably why they were laughing so hard. Max said it was a nice break from that sad shit you’d had in your car. Man. Billy Hargrove, secret lover of poetry, who knew? Well, clearly you did. But, as we all now know, you were good at hiding shit.”

____

Steve stops and Billy can hear him swallowing. He wonders how long Steve’s been here. He wonders how long _he’s_ been here.

____

“Is it weird,” Steve says, “that I think of you as a friend even though we’ve never had a real conversation? Like, my mom calls and asks me about my friends – I tell her about Robin and the kids and you – not that I say much about you, my mom finally figured out you were in a coma. Which, I mean, is ridiculous, but I guess I didn’t say much about you for a long time and then she says to me, ‘Steve’,” here Steve’s pitch increases, “‘who’s this Billy you keep talking about?’ And that stopped me, y’know, I didn’t know how to explain you. So, I just said you were a friend who was in that mall accident, who I was visiting in the hospital. My mom didn’t _even_ remember that there was an accident at Starcourt. Tells you how much they’re involved in my life.”

____

Billy hears Steve sigh and it’s a tired, resigned sound that makes Billy ache a bit. 

____

“El says you dream about me. I know she shouldn’t be looking – she knows she shouldn’t be looking – but, I just had to know, y’know, if you still liked – _loved_ – me. She says you do. And, dude, I dunno what to do about that.” Steve stops, inhales deeply and slowly lets the breath out. 

____

“Because,” Steve continues, “I think there might a part of me that hopes you do. But if you do and I-I want that, what does that mean? Like, man, we don’t even know each other anymore, not that we ever did, y’know, beyond that whole male posturing shit – you can blame Nancy for that concept. Sometimes,” Steve’s voice drops to a whisper, “I dream about you – not just nightmares, but like _other_ dreams. And, well. Fuck. Billy. I dunno. I just don’t know. I talked to Robin and she says sexuality is fluid. But, what if…” Steve pauses and breathes, and Billy can feel him prop his elbows on the bed next to his arm. Billy’s arm is immediately colder after the loss of contact.

____

“What if,” Steve continues, voice muffled as if he’s talking into his hands, “what if I just made you up? What if I put you on a pedestal and you’ll wake up and you won’t even want to be friends with me. I know that sounds pathetic – it is – but I don’t have much good shit going on in my life – I work at a dead-end job, can’t get into college, my dad hates me – or is at least so disappointed in me that he doesn’t come home anymore – it’s not like I can tell him that I’ve helped save Hawkins three different times and that I’m an _excellent_ babysitter – not that it would really matter to him. So, like the good shit I have is really just the people I hang out with – Robin, the kids, even Nancy and Jonathan, – and you. I think I’ve been by everyday in the past month – I’ve spent more time with you this past year than I have my own parents. You know all my secrets – you may not remember them, but I’ve told you all of them. And what if you wake up and you don’t want anything to do with me? Fuck.”

____

Billy hears Steve shift again, almost like he’s sliding down in the chair, and feels the warmth of Steve’s hand as it closes over the back of his hand. Billy cracks open his eyes. He sees the long lines of Steve’s body sprawled out in a relaxed position – his head tipped back, eyes closed, hair as buoyant as ever, still defying gravity. Steve slowly drags his thumb up and down over the back of Billy’s hand in a soothing gesture – Billy thinks Steve is trying to soothe himself. Then Billy blinks and opens his eyes all the way – the light hurts them, and they start to tear. He takes stock of his body – he doesn’t think he can feel any pain, just dull aches on his sides and his chest.

____

Billy takes a slow, deep breath and gradually flips his hand over, the one that Steve is holding. At first, Steve doesn’t seem to notice – he’s so lost in his own thoughts. But then he jerks up, bringing his head closer to Billy’s and Billy sees his warm, brown eyes – just like he remembers, just like he dreamt about. Steve doesn’t say anything, and Billy thinks he’s in shock. Billy finally turns his hand over – he didn’t realize how much energy that was going to take and he’s already exhausted – and his palm is touching Steve’s palm. Billy then closes his fingers over the back of Steve’s hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. Steve doesn’t do anything, and Billy hears a clock counting the seconds – one – two – three – four – five. 

____

Then Steve’s face relaxes and an open, easy smile spreads across it, crinkling his eyes, and deepening the laugh lines around his mouth – it’s the one Billy’s been dreaming about and it’s even more perfect when it’s aimed it him. Steve squeezes Billy’s hand hard and slowly brings the other one up to touch his face – almost is if he isn’t sure Billy is real. 

____

“Hey,” Steve says, “it’s been awhile.”

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many people quote "Do not go gentle into that good night" in this chapter and previous ones. The poem that El is reading with Max is "Fern Hill". Both are by Dylan Thomas - whose work kinda inspired this story!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! As always, I'd love any feedback!
> 
> Stay safe.

**Author's Note:**

> The title and chapter titles are from [Do not go gentle into that good night](https://poets.org/poem/do-not-go-gentle-good-night) by Dylan Thomas. I find the poem beautifully sad - I love it!
> 
> Any feedback is greatly appreciated.
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful [red_plaid_on_red_plaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_plaid_on_red_plaid)


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